


The True Prince

by demonfox38



Series: DLC from DF38 [13]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Adoption, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:53:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23334931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonfox38/pseuds/demonfox38
Summary: It has been a long, difficult journey to find their son. What do Mum and Dad encounter at the end of their road?
Series: DLC from DF38 [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677937
Kudos: 7





	The True Prince

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally published to Tumblr and TF2Chan on December 27th, 2012. It was a gift for CosmicTuesdays from the TF2Chan Secret Santa 2012 event.

It was the first warm day in a long while. There had been rain and fog, mist that clung to skin like wet velvet. Mud hung off of every man's boots, pulling them into sinking paths. Silent birds now sang. Their voices echoed in the forest, bouncing from leaf to leaf. The ground crumpled beneath an oncoming vehicle. Its driver was a serviceman. His destination was of little concern to him. It was just another paycheck to him. To his employers?

This was destined to be a day of great joy. The gentleman and lady in the back could feel in their bones.

"Is this the place?" the first of the two in the back asked.

His driver responded, "Aye, sir."

The gentleman in the backseat took a sharp whiff. The scent of old wood flooded his nostrils. There was a hint of smoke and fire. A foul taste coated his tongue. Brimstone. Had to be. And just the slightest touch of potassium chlorate. The gentlemen grinned. This was promising.

"Think we've got one, Mum," the gentleman beamed. He nudged the other occupant in the car with his elbow.

The woman sitting with him was not so enthusiastic. She crossed her arms. "That's what you said 'bout the last three places, Dad. Just a bunch of hooligans there. Why should I get my hopes up?"

"Trust me. This smells right," the gentleman said. "Smells like me childhood."

Mum couldn't afford to be optimistic. She had been too eager to accept the first lad. When he had turned out to be little more than a miniature terrorist, destined to be nothing greater than a Glasgow thumper, she had been crushed. The second and third took her less time to deduce then the first. Their faces were just a little off, hair not so tightly curled, temper ill-fitting for one of their family's rank. Scared of fire. Too eager to strike a match. Either constantly picked fights or hid behind his friends. Best just to leave all of them be. She was looking for a lost lion, not wolves and chickens.

There was a sudden burst of high-pitched squeals. A rusted gate fell back, allowing the car passage. More squeaks followed. It was the sound of children playing. They darted out of the car's path, growing silent as it went by. The car made a turn to the left. It slowed as it reached its destination, stopping with an awkward lurch. 

The driver assisted both Mum and Dad out of the vehicle. As their heritage and trade went, so did their eyeballs. It wasn't anything that bothered either of them. Mum had a sharp, lithe cane for navigation, so she was typically the one to scout the landscape out. The gentleman carried a broadsword, and he damn well was going to use it. Perhaps using it as a guide was unorthodox, but it was effective at scaring off ruffians. He didn't need to see them to make short work of his foes. He just needed to listen, to smell, and to swing very hard.

"Wait here," Dad told his driver. "We won't be long."

The couple marched together to the front door. Pop threw it aside, then held it open. Mum passed through, smiling at her husband's thoughtfulness. Their appearance startled the staff clustered in the foyer. Half a dozen women were standing around, clucking about the incoming guests. They gasped in surprise at the duo. It wasn't anything new.

One woman clacked her way over to them. They could feel from the vibrations in the floor that she was heavy set, scuffing about on her heels as she walked. She slipped a large palm into each of their free hands. "Sister Ann Catherine Margaret. Welcome to the Crypt Grammar School for Orphans, Mister and Misses DeGroot."

"Glad to be here," Dad started. "We're hopin' this is the one."

Sister Ann went off on a tangent. "Oh, he has to be. I can tell. You three would make the perfect match. Once you meet him, I'm sure you'll think the same. Why, he even looks like he could be your son!"

Mum screwed up her face. Sister Ann pulled back for a moment, realizing her misspeak. Before she could correct herself, Mum nodded. "Right. We'll 'see' about that, then."

The nun didn't want to put her foot in her mouth again. She patted Dad on the shoulder. "Sorry. There's a hall to your left. We'll be heading that way."

Tiled floors gave way to polished wood. Dad could feel the tip of his sword sinking into the floorboards as he walked. Mum strolled beside him, her arm wrapped around his. He gave it a squeeze. She laughed, then swatted at his thigh with her walking stick. They could hear Sister Ann's breath catch as they horsed around. Neither of the two could figure out what she was so flustered about.

"Your driver—does he live on your premises?" Sister Ann asked.

Dad nodded. "Aye. He, and a maid. Bit of a charity case for both of them, really. Our neighbors—the Trotter clan, just the next mansion over—their whole building went up in flames. An entire lineage destroyed in one night. The only reason either 'a their servants survived was 'cause they were drunk in our cabbage garden."

"How tragic," Sister Ann fawned.

"Just goes to show ya. Never put yer eggs in one basket. Least, that's the philosophy 'a my clan," Dad grinned.

Mum sighed. "They just make more work for us, really. The maid never can dust right. I can smell it all over the house. And don't get me started on her sloppy cleanin'!"

Dad laughed, his chuckles phlegmy. "Driver's terrible, too. Always so slow! Boy needs to livin' it up a bit. Thinks he's drivin' eggs to market, that's what."

"I'm sure he's just trying to take care of you," Sister Ann replied.

Dad grunted, not bothering to further articulate his reply. That was the way people were with him and Mum. Everyone was always so worried about them. Perhaps his royal lineage had something to do with it. Maybe it was his disability. But, more likely than not, it was because nobody in Scotland had balls under their kilts quite like the DeGroots. It was one thing to do battle with all senses and extremities attached. It was another to excel without them.

There was another tap on his shoulder. "He's in the playroom over here. I must warn you, though. He has a nasty habit of—"

Sister Ann's presentation was interrupted by a rolling battle cry. Half a dozen voices roared at once as a small pack of children bum rushed the visitors. Suction-cup tipped arrows peppered the doorframe. Sister Ann squawked in fright. A few must have stuck to her. Wooden sticks and cardboard swords swung at the visitors' heels. Mum dropped her cane, then scooped two of the rascals off the ground. They squealed with fright, then laughter. Dad growled back, sending the rest of the kids scampering back with one stomp of his foot.

The child infantry's final attack whistled past all three adults' ears. There was a sparkling heat on their cheeks as fire propelled a ball past their heads. It landed with a sharp thunk in the wall behind them. A tiny beep preceded an explosion of splinters. The adults ducked, avoiding most of the shrapnel. A moldy old tapestry landed on their heads. Dad grumbled, then threw it aside.

"I should have smelled a trap two kilometers away!" Dad yelled. "Show yerself, MacDougal!"

His clan's nemesis was nowhere on the site. Rather, a small man answered his cry with another. "What, ye wee princesses can't handle a couple 'a giants? How're we supposed to take on dragons if ya can't fight a bunch of old geezers?"

Sister Ann's voice went sharp. "Tavish! What in the name of God do you think you're doin'?" She stomped over to where the boy was holed up behind his friends. "This is your last chance to leave here, you hear me?"

"You said that the last three times, 'n I drove them all off!" Tavish stomped his foot, throwing sass back at his caregiver. "And I'll keep doin' it! I won't have any more bastards—"

There was a slap that made both Mum and Dad wince. A cold silence flooded the room. It was followed by a wave of searing heat from Sister Ann. "You listen, and you listen good 'n proper. You are lucky anyone wants your foul little mouth. You straighten up now, or I will send for Constable Stewart this instant! See how far your little pranks will get you in public orphanages! God will have no patience for you there."

Mum's hand shot out to find Dad's arm. It was tight, trembling. Dad grunted in turn. The boy deserved to be punished, certainly, but this was taking it too far. If she was this unrestrained in front of guests, she could only be worse in privacy. It wasn't anything new to either of them. Every other orphanage had some bat like her in their ranks. Someone had to be the reprimander, and they were all too willing to do so. Especially if they had some authority to back up their behavior.

"Could we have a few minutes with the boy?" Dad interrupted.

Sister Ann replied nervously. "Of course." She whistled for the rest of the children. "Follow me. There's some gardening we can attend to."

Mum and Dad walked past the doorframe as kids scurried past them. Sister Ann followed in turn, shoes clicking quickly together. There was a creak behind them as the door closed. A sniffle came from the center of the room. The boy hesitated, not wanting to approach the strangers. Any sudden movement might have jarred another despicable tantrum or crying fit from him.

"Are there any chairs for us to sit in?" Mum asked Tavish.

The boy responded with a cracked voice. "C-course. To yer right." He paused, hesitant to add, "Need me to lead ya?"

"It's alright. Thank ya, though," Mum said.

Mum forged the way to the chairs in question. She swept her cane slowly across the playroom floor in gentle arcs. She brushed aside discarded toys as she walked—plush animals, soft dolls, wooden blocks and the like. As she stepped forward, her husband followed the soft squeaks from the floorboards. The young man didn't move until the older two sat down. He hesitated, then joined them in turn.

"Suppose I'd outta apologize fer the bomb," Tavish started. "Wouldn't 'a hurt ya or nothin'. Can't make anythin' killer here."

Dad smiled. "Actually—that was what we came to talk to ya about."

Tavish whistled. He scrunched down. "Oh. Then, I guess ya've already heard about me."

"Somewhat, yes," Mum said. She patted her hand on the table, searching for Tavish's. He slipped his hand under hers. As soon as she felt it, she smiled and clutched it. "Would ya mind tellin' us what happened?"

The little boy's body tensed. There was a shuffle in his seat as he fidgeted. "I suppose Sister Ann's blabbed all about it already. No matter what she says, I didn't mean to do it. I mean, I did mean to kill that blasted potato-stealin' Nessie, but I didn't mean to off me parents."

"We just want to know the story, lad," Dad cut Tavish's ramblings short.

It took a moment for the young boy to screw up his courage. "It was in May. Just, ah—well, just had a new set 'a bombs made up. Got one from a stranger, too. I'd been experimentin' with potassium chlorate, and I thought that would've done ol' Nessie in. So, I waited in the mornin' for him to show up. Always shows up in the fog, ya know. Then…"

Tavish paused. His fingers tightened around Mum's hand. She squeezed back. "Go on, then."

"Right. So. There I was, and there he was. I'd had charges laid out on the beach and in nets." Tavish sat upright, forcing his spine to align in a column. "Well, I set the bombs to a remote detonator. I'd done it a couple 'a times before, and I figured that'd be the best way to do 'im in. So, I hit the switch on the detonator. But—well, you know those first bombs that I set to the switch? Forgot that they were still hooked up."

"Where were they?" Dad asked.

"In the basement," Tavish replied. He took a deep breath, then sighed. "Sent the whole house flyin' twenty meters in the air. Landed right on top 'a Nessie. Weathercock first, too. 'N there were my parents in the front room, readin' the paper and fightin'. Well, they were, at the time. Really wasn't much left of them after the blast. Or of the front room, really. Paper survived, though."

Mum and Dad sat quietly for a moment, analyzing the story. It certainly wasn't the most gruesome tale in the DeGroot lineage of slaughter. Granted, landing a house point-first on a mythological creature was a good point in Tavish's favor. That was the kind of strategic strike that a world-class explosives expert would do well to have. It seemed like the kid had some talent to him, even if he was hesitant to share his mistakes.

"What did ye learn from this?" Dad questioned.

Tavish fidgeted. It was a hard question for young children to answer, especially when they had to admit their mistakes. "Make sure ya know where yer bombs are before ya set them off. Also, that there are multiple Nessies. Saw another one before I had to leave town. Pissed me right off."

Mum clicked her tongue. "You've certainly got quite the mouth on you."

Tavish squirmed under her grasp. "Sorry. Guess I'm not a good kid."

Both Mum and Dad sat up when he said those words. True, the lad was mouthy and seemed like he got into a lot of trouble. To hear him degrade himself at such a young age was sad. He was angry and bossy and guilty. That was a lot of pain for a child to carry around.

Mum patted her lap. "Come here. I want to see you."

"What?" Tavish was flabbergasted. "But, aren't you blind?"

Mum laughed. "There are ways people like Dad 'n me can see, even if we don't have our eyes."

There was a screech as Tavish stood up. He trod softly towards the two adults. Mum put her hands out first. He backed away when they headed towards his face. Both of them paused, trying to read into the other's actions. The boy found his strength, then pressed towards the woman again. Her fingers landed on his cheeks. They pressed softly against his skin, starting from the top of his head. They massaged through his scalp, then descended down the front of his face.

"They shaved you," Mum said.

"One 'a the sisters caught me smugglin' sulfur pouches 'n gunpowder in me hair. So, they chopped it off," Tavish admitted. "First, they took me pockets, 'n then they took me hair. They can't take me knickers, though."

"Atta boy," Dad laughed. "Used to hide powder in me shirts. Rolled up the sleeves with pouches in 'em. Headmasters never figured it out."

Tavish cocked his head to the side, Mum's fingers going crooked across it. "You too?"

"'Course! 'Til me parents found me, anyway," Dad replied. He tapped the table, "Alright, Mum. Let me see him."

She sighed but patted the boy towards Dad's direction. He followed suit. Tavish smirked as the man's fingers rubbed behind his ears. His fingertips were rougher than Mum's, and they smelt of a scent he was familiar with. "Ya stink like a Chinese firework factory!"

"Oy! Don't get mouthy about it," Dad chuckled. He sighed, then laughed. "Ah, Mum. He's got yer nose!"

Mum chuckled back, "Pretty sure he's got your chin!"

Tavish swatted Dad's hands away from his face. He stumbled backwards, then fell on his rear. Dad and Mum stood up, trying to find their frightened boy. Mum came across him first. She sat him upright, then dusted off his back. His shoulders were shaking.

"What in the hell d'ya mean by that?" Tavish demanded. "Are you my parents?"

Dad answered him, "Yes, son."

A tide of emotions came over Tavish all at once. He spewed them out as his head tried to process this information. "Don't—don't be lyin'! You…with those awful bastards? Why would you…you…I—I can't believe it, but you—Holy cripes! I do look like you two!"

Dad pushed down on Tavish's shoulders. He knelt down next to his son, placing his sword to his left side. He tried his best to talk face-to-face with the scared young boy. Even then, his son had to turn his head. "Thank ya. Son, listen to me. Your proper birth name is Tavish DeGroot. You come from a long, long line 'a DeGroots."

Tavish bobbed his head, bumping it against his dad's hand. "I know 'a them. Ye go a way back. Bombers, all 'a ya. Just like—"

"That's right. Just like you." Dad continued explaining the situation. "We aim to be the best 'a the best. All naturals, all the way. But there's a test all DeGroots must go through before they can be part 'a the clan. They have to show natural ability. No parental influence, no hocus pocus. Just pure wit. 'N see, that's why we had to give you up. We were waitin' fer ye to sprout."

Tavish sat down, his voice pained. "I—I suppose that makes sense."

Mum crouched next to him. She found his shoulders, then enveloped him in a hug. "We're sorry. I know this must hurt. Trust me, I know. This DeGroot clan is serious business. Ye don't wanna know what I had to go through just to marry your bloody father!"

That brought a laugh from Tavish. It took a few moments for him to collect his thoughts. He sank in Mum's arms, his brain trying to come up with the right emotions. Dad waited patiently for him to come around. He was a man, not a mother. He had his dignities to keep. Still, the silence gnawed at his decision to put his son through this. The boy was intellectually tempered for the family business. Perhaps not emotionally stable enough yet, but his temper could be checked. If he was going to be a proper father, the least he could do was try to help him grow.

"I wish you would have found me sooner," Tavish finally said.

"Sorry, lad. There's a lot of right shitheads out there," Dad cussed. "Takes a while to find the proper one."

Both the father and the son weren't one for doting on their emotional lows for long. As soon as Dad had apologized, Tavish had already bounced onto his feet. He bolted around the playroom, then headed towards the door. "Alright, Mum and Dad! I'm sick 'a this place. Let's get the hell outta here!"

Mum snickered at her boy's enthusiasm. "Don't ye want to pack, first?"

"No! Well, maybe. Still got some potatoes fer plantin'." Tavish was full of energy. "Ye do have a garden, right?"

Mum smiled. "Of course. Just has cabbages in it, but—"

Tavish laughed. "Cabbages! Oh, brother! Clearly, ya needed me just to take care 'a yer bloody garden!"

"Fair enough. But yer not gettin' 'round the fertilizer 'till I can teach ya how to handle it," Dad replied.

Tavish scoffed. "Please. Like I need some old guy to teach me how to make stinky poo bombs."

"Old guy?" Dad roared with laughter. "Maybe we should just leave 'im here, Mum!"

Of course, they didn't.


End file.
